


In your hands, I trust

by Akikofuma



Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Depression, Injury, Light BDSM, M/M, Mentions of noncon (not between these two tho), Pining, Praise Kink, Soft!Geralt (kind of), Sub!Jaskier, Subdrop, Suspected noncon, dom!Geralt, lots of feels, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: Geralt is in a shit mood.That, in itself, isn’t unusual. He’s in a shit mood more often than not. Even the cause isn’t an uncommon one. The man walking beside Roach had gotten under the Witchers skin more times than he can count since the day they met in Posada.What is different from the norm is how Jaskier is annoying him.-----------Or: Jaskier is acting odd. Really odd. Geralt is the only one that can help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rose Thorns & Melodies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914817
Comments: 39
Kudos: 544





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo. I don't know where this came from. But here it is. Heh. Enjoy!

Geralt is in a shit mood.

That, in itself, isn’t unusual. He’s in a shit mood more often than not. Even the cause isn’t an uncommon one. The man walking beside Roach had gotten under the Witchers skin more times than he can count since the day they met in Posada.

What is different from the norm is _how_ Jaskier is annoying him.

The bard isn’t his usual, chipper self. Instead of constant singing, humming and _talking,_ Jaskier is silent. The lute he usually strums on when he walks secured against the humans back. 

Geralt wants to attribute it to fatigue; they’d been traveling for the better part of the day, hoping to outrun a storm. Find a village with an inn where they could stay dry and warm, perhaps even give the bard a chance to ply his trade and earn them some coin. 

They don’t need it, technically. Geralts last contract was lucrative, and the pouch that had, at some point, become  _theirs_ instead of  _his_ , still heavy with coin. But Jaskier  _enjoyed_ performing, and while the Witcher would never admit it out loud, he wanted the brunette to be happy. Content. 

Which brings him back to the current situation.

Jaskier so very clearly upset, though Geralt had no idea what had caused it. Even worse, he didn’t know how to fix it. It highlighted just how different they were. Where Jaskier always seemed to know exactly what Geralt needed, the Witcher knew little about soothing the other in return. 

A kind word often helped; Geralt would go out of his way to mention he liked the new melody the bard was working on, or complimenting Jaskier on a phrase he thought rather clever. Now, however, there was no melody to praise. No words to comment on. Just silence.

A turn to ride Roach, perhaps. Geralt glanced at the bard, watching delicate fingers plucking away at the rim of his doublet. A nervous habit for most people, but he knew better where his bard was concerned. Jaskier was deep in thought, caught up somewhere in his head; not necessarily a bad thing. Except when Jaskier got like this, the place in his mind  he retreated to was never a  _good_ one.

It reminded the Witcher too much of the silence that blanketed itself over them for days after Geralt had returned to the inn after another tryst with Yennefer. 

Jaskier, beaten black and blue, bleeding, onto the otherwise pristine sheets. It had taken forever for the marks to fade from pale skin. 

Geralt had been convinced (still was, frankly) that the bard had been raped. The way his body had been forced to split open to allow entrance, the marks of strangulation- it all screamed being taken by force. 

He’d fully intended to hunt the bastard down and kill him slowly. No one hurt his bard. 

No one. 

Except Geralt himself. 

The Witcher was aware how hypocritical he was being. Of all the pain the bard experienced, most of it came from Geralt. 

Not just with harsh words and rough shoves  alone , not anymore.  Since they’d started sharing each others bed, things had become so much more complicated. Time and time again, he questioned their arrangement. Decided, over and over, to end it. To let his little lark fly free. 

Only to grow weak a few hours later, to the bards voice, his body, his spirit _._ Drawn to the light that was Jaskier, in a world of seemingly infinite darkness. 

It reminds him of that blasted song he hates so much, but is a common request now, where ever they go.

_ I’m weak my love, and I am wanting _

He could hear Jaskier sing in his mind; the way his voice broke ever so slightly in just the right places to convey emotion perfectly. Saw the bards eyes, so blue, and so,  _ so _ sad.

Geralt had never commented on it, but he wasn’t an idiot. 

He knew exactly what the bard was singing about. Who had inspired the song. 

His muscles would tense, his jaw set tightly against a growl at the first cords each time. It had become so bad, Geralt almost felt nauseous; a real, physical response to something emotional. A shameful thing for a Witcher. 

He’d have to ponder on the matter later. Jaskier needed his attention now.

He stilled Roach, swung himself out of the saddle. Jaskier had stopped beside him, giving him a questioning look. 

_ Fucking talk to me!  _ Geralt spat in his mind. Bit his tongue to stop the words from spewing out like poison. Trying to force anything out of the bard in this state would only make things worse; he’d learned that the hard way. 

“Get on.” Geralt rumbled, nodding towards Roach. 

Jaskier glanced at the Witcher, then to Roach. Wrung his hands a little. Shook his head, much to Geralts surprise.

His lark had never refused a ride.  _ Never _ .

If Geralt hadn’t been worried before, he sure as fuck was now. For a moment, he stood frozen, confused and-  _ helpless _ . 

It had never been this bad, Jaskier had never pulled back this far; Geralt was at a loss. Silence stretched out between them. 

He could just get back on Roach. Ignore Jaskier until they made it to the inn, and hope the bard had found his way out of the dark places in his mind on his own. Return to Geralt with a bright smile and a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes. 

Yet.. What if doing nothing made things even worse? 

Geralt had no desire to find out what would happen then. To find Jaskier as he had that faithful day at the inn, led astray by a beautiful sorceress. 

He’d do anything to avoid it. 

Geralt allowed himself time to take in the bards pose. Shoulders slumped, hands clasped together; head lowered, blue eyes aimed towards the ground. Lacking the self confidence, the charisma and grace that ordinarily seeped from his every pore. 

Geralt felt a certain shock at what he was facing. 

Jaskier looked so utterly small. Everything about him falling inwards, somehow. He didn’t have the words to properly describe it. Trust Jaskier to lead Geralt into another situation he had no hope of navigating. 

Finally, he settled on a course of action.

“Why not?” He asked, attempting to sound warm, patient. Comforting. 

“I- I’m fine.” Jaskier hastily replied. “You can ride. The town isn’t too far away, right? I can walk.” 

“Didn’t ask if you were fine.” Geralt hummed, taking a step closer. “Asked why you don’t want to ride Roach.”

He badly wanted to reach out, to lift his larks chin and force him into a semblance of eye contact. Perhaps even cup his cheek, brush his calloused thumb over a delicate cheek bone. 

He couldn’t. They weren’t locked away in an inn, or hidden deep in the forest. The open road too close to public for Geralt to offer up such sweet gestures. 

No reply came, and Geralt, frustrated and lost, gave a growl.

“Answer me, bard.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.” The words where spoken so softly, even his heightened senses had trouble catching them.

Geralt stared. They’d traveled for many, many years together. Never had Jaskier thought of himself of anything less than an improvement to the Witchers life. 

Not once.

He struggled for a reply. So many things he  _ wanted _ to say, they tangled in his mind, rendering him utterly tongue tied. 

_ You’re not a burden, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for making you believe that, for making you feel so small, for not giving you what you deserve, for hurting you so much, for failing to be better when all you do is give, and all I do is take- _

Geralt clenched his eyes closed against the onslaught of emotions, the words screaming to be said, the frantic hammering of the bards heart- 

It was the scent of fear that snapped him out of it.

“I- I’ll ride. I’m sorry, Geralt, I shouldn’t have- its so kind of you to offer.” Jaskier stumbled over his words, scrambling to get onto Roach. The acid, putrid stink of his fear so heavy, Geralt had to turn away. Force himself to breathe in deeply, without allowing himself to ponder on what had just happened. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

He’d just managed to get himself back under control when Jaskier yelped, followed by a thud on the ground. Geralt spun around, finding Jaskier sat in the dirt; saddle tilted off to the side on Roach. In his hurry to do what he thought Geralt- what, wanted? Ordered? - Jaskier had fallen off. 

There he sat, his songbird, legs pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them tightly. Resting his forehead against his knobbly knees, trembling. Geralt stood, utterly flabbergasted. 

“Jaskier.” He tried, lowering himself onto one knee beside the bard. Gods, he wanted to reach out, to touch, just offer something, _anything_ -

“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” Jaskier whimpered, knuckles going white from the strain of the bruising hold he had on his own legs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me here.” 

It felt like his world had been flipped on its axis, so strange a display this was. The urge to run away burning through his muscles. Just leave Jaskier here, wait until they found each other again on the path, this moment long past. 

Felt too fragile, too tender, to be handled with the gruff hands of a Witcher. 

It was then that he recalled the advice Vesemir had given him last winter. 

_ If you want to be better, then do better, pup. Waiting for change has never done anyone good. You have to work at it. _

Geralt could be better. He’d  _ be _ better. For Jaskier.

“Hush.” He rasped, moving closer. “Not leaving you here. Come on, songbird. Lets get you back on your feet.” 

Jaskier nodded frantically, moving to stand with such urgency, he was on his knees before Geralt could help.

“Easy now.” Geralt soothed in a low voice. The bard reminded him of a spooked horse. He knew how to handle those at least. “Slowly.” 

He wrapped his fingers around the bards arm, coaxing him upwards. Again, Jaskier hadn’t replied with words, quickly nodding his head. Seemingly desperate to please. 

Once the bard was standing, his scent turned even more sour. Pain, Geralt realized. 

“Where’s it hurt, hm?” He asked, though mostly to himself. A horse had no way of answering him, and his songbird didn’t seem inclined to verbal communication. One more thing to worry about later, as Geralt filed it away in his mind. “Go on, show me.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier lifted his right leg, brushing delicate fingers against his ankle.

“Sprained it while you fell, maybe.” That put Jaskier walking firmly in the “not going to happen” category, as far as Geralt was concerned. “Gonna look at it when we’re settled. For now, you’re riding.”

His lark  did not refuse this time, simply allowed the Witcher to help him onto Roach. 

“Hold on.” Geralt instructed, allowing himself a fleeting brush to the bards knee. “Few more hours, we’ll be at the inn.”

* * *

The inn wasn’t as nice as Geralt had secretly hoped for. As the only one in town, it would have to do. 

“One room, one bed.” He grunted at the inn keep. The man, while not hostile in any way, had been wary the second they entered. Geralt didn’t give a fuck. Jaskier hadn’t spoken the entire time it had taken to get her. Still smelled of fear, like he was expecting Geralt to dump him at the inn and carry on.

It had happened before. 

“Of course. And for your companion?” The man asked, accepting Geralts coin and handing over a key. He watched the dull, brown eyes dart towards the bard. “..Are you quite alright, young man?” 

“He’s fine.” Geralt gruffed. “And he’s staying with me. We’ll need hot water for a bath. Two meals brought up to the room.”

The humans lips thinned, clearly troubled by the scene before him. A Witcher, accompanied by a man who’s entire posture screamed of discomfort, of anxiety. Probably wondering if Geralt was forcing himself on the poor boy. 

“A bath would be nice.” Jaskier finally answered, though his voice is thin, wavers as he speaks. 

It didn’t help things, but Geralt found himself unable to get angry. His lark was trying. 

“Last door on the right side. I’ll have the girls bring up the water. Tubs already in your room. Just been cleaned.”

Deciding that it wasn’t worth risking a scrap with a Witcher, the inn keep turned away.  _ Coward _ , Geralt seethed. If he had taken Jaskier by force, the songbird would have found no help here. 

He wondered if, all those months ago, it had transpired something like this; Jaskier too drunk to fend off a strong man, that dragged him into the room while the inn keep watched. Too scared to do the right thing, and stop them. 

Gods, but he’d _wanted_ a fight. A familiar way to deal with this overwhelming sense of- whatever he was feeling. To burn through the nervous energy coursing through his veins. He understood pain, understood _rage_.

He’d gladly bleed a little for some fucking peace.

Instead, he ushered Jaskier towards the room. Knew a fight would get them nothing but a night camped out under the sky. It wasn’t what his lark needed right now. Geralt would just have to suck it up.

“Come on.” He urged quietly, guiding Jaskier towards the bed. “Sit down.”

Jaskier obeyed as if his life depended on it. It cut deep, seeing his bard afraid of him. Made Geralts heart ache, his eyes burn. Even more so because the Witcher had no idea what he’d done to inspire such a thing.

More to mull over when Jaskier was tended to.

“Gonna look at your ankle.” 

Getting onto his knees, he lifted the bards leg up. Gently pulled off the worn leather boot, placing it beside him. Already he could see that the injury was far worse than he’d thought. The ankle had swollen considerably, skin turned purple and blue. Just standing on it would have been agony. Despite being in pain, Jaskier had said nothing. Not made a single sound.

It was  _ infuriating _ . 

Had Geralt known the extent of the injury, he’d have wrapped the bards ankle immediately. Instead of finding the inn, he’d gone to find the local healer. This needed fucking treatment that was beyond his skill.

He wanted to fucking scream at the man for being so damn  _ stupid _ . Jaskier knew better than this; an injury to the foot or leg could cripple a human for the rest of their short life. 

Geralt forced himself to keep calm. Reminded himself that screaming wouldn’t help. Jaskier needed him to be  _ better _ . 

Some of his annoyance, however, must have made it onto his face. The leg was jerked back, out of his hands. 

“It’s fine!” Jaskier insisted, shakily reaching out for his boot. “I can rest it tonight, and tomorrow it’ll be better, we don’t have to stop. The contract is only a few days away, I can buy some ointment from the healer- a-after I sing, I mean, I can go downstairs and-”

“That’s enough.” Geralt growled; the words coming out so much harsher that he’d wanted. It was too much, he was feeling  _ too fucking much.  _ He needed to get away, just for a little, just to breathe. 

He couldn’t fucking  _ breathe _ . 

“This needs a healer.” Geralt grunted. “I’ll find them. Stay here.” 

“ I don’t need a healer!” Jaskier protested, his voice shrill, piercing. It rung in the Witchers ears. “Please Geralt, I’m fine-”

“You’re not  _ fine! _ ” Geralt roared.  He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t contain himself. It all came bursting out of him; a vicious, ugly beast, clawing itself out of his chest to see the light of day. “You’re  _ injured _ . You’ve been  _ off _ all fucking day. I’m tired of dealing with your  _ shit _ , bard. Stay where you fucking are, so I can find the healer and you  _ might _ keep your damn foot.”

He stormed out of the room without waiting for a reply. 

The second fresh air hit his lungs, Geralt closed his eyes. He’d fucked up again. Cursing, Geralt forced himself to move. Something about Jaskiers fear and pain had gotten to him so deeply, so profoundly, he’d lost all control over himself. 

Another shameful act to add to the long, long list of his digressions.

He’d make up for it later. For now, they needed a healer.

* * *

The elderly woman had agreed to come to the inn and tend to Jaskier for a few coins extra as she packed her bag with herbs, ointments and bandages. Geralt felt confident he’d given enough information to properly treat the bards foot. No need to drag the bard back to the hut at the other side of the village.

They’d just stepped into the establishment when the innkeeper stood before him, his fat, oily face an ugly read.

“Sir Witcher! Your- your companion is unwell, he-” Geralt shoved the man aside, sprinted off towards the room. The healer would follow. Shoving the door open, Geralt was faced with darkness. No candle was light, the curtains drawn shut against the setting sun. 

Jaskier wasn’t on the bed where he’d left him. 

Searching the room for his songbird was no issue, even without the light falling in from the corridor behind him.  _ There _ .

Jaskier sat beneath the small, wooden table, curled up in the fetal position. He was whimpering, his breathing too fast, too sharp. His heart raced and stuttered in a way Geralt hadn’t experienced before. 

Within a split second, Geralt was on his knees in front of his lark. 

“Jaskier.” He rasped, his throat constricting  at the bards shivering form. “Whats wrong?”

“ _ I’m sorry! _ ” His songbird wailed, muffled against his knees. “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, I won’t do it again, I won’t, I promise- Please, please don’t, I’ll be  _ good _ \-  Suck you off, or you- you can take me right now, don’t need to prepare me- ”

“I won’t, sweet songbird, I won’t hurt you.  I swear it, little one, listen to me. ” Geralt was confused, downright fucking  _ terrified _ , yet he forced himself to speak all the same. “Look at me Jaskier, come on now, look at me.” 

The mop of brown hair moved slowly, reluctantly, until blue eyes settled on Geralt. Not quite making eye contact, but no longer hiding. Red rimmed and wet, they look- wrong, hazy, like they weren’t seeing what was before them. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt tried again, panic rising. Had he been cursed? Poisoned? What harm had come to him this time, after once more being abandoned by the Witcher? “Come here, sweet bard.”

Jaskier whimpered, swallowed hard, but ultimately moved. Crawled out from under the table into the space Geralt provided by moving back. He knelt, then stopped. The position was surely nowhere close to comfortable; his injured foot had to screaming torment at him. Yet his songbird didn’t move. 

“Thank you.” Geralt breathed. Jaskier was hearing him, at least. Could follow his lead. Might not be too far gone to save. He reached for the man, wrapping an arm around his back, and beneath his thighs. It wasn’t easy, but eventually, Geralt had him hoisted up in the air. 

The door fell shut behind him, and Geralt spun, went for his sword. Instead of an enemy, he caught sight of the healer. 

“The dark’s better.” All the explanation she gave. Assuming she’d encountered this ailment before, and with more pressing matters to attend to, Geralt took her by her word. He carried his lark to the bed, gently sitting him down. No reaction came.

“Scoot back, songbird.”  Jaskier obeyed, eyes still clouded. Seeing, but not. A dull, cheap imitation of what they usually were. “What’s wrong with him?”

The healer moved towards them, ever so slowly. How she managed not to bump into things, or Geralt himself, he had no idea.

“His mind is stuck.” 

“Stuck  _ where? _ ” 

“Somewhere dark.” 

It wasn’t a helpful reply, and Geralt bristled at the woman’s even tone. Her patient was fucking  _ suffering _ . She should move with more urgency, for fucks sake.  Upsetting her was not an option, unfortunately. He depended on her, for now.

“ Fix him.” He demanded instead, keeping a hand on the bards leg as she knelt down beside him. 

“I can look over his leg, Witcher, but his mind is not for me to heal.” 

Geralt didn’t like hitting women. Tried to avoid it as much as possible.

He was tempted to make an exception, just this once.

“Then who?” He growled, hand tightening. Jaskier startled, fresh tears spilling from dark lashes. 

“No, no no please, don’t-” He garbled, reaching out for the Witcher, shaking hands coming to rest on broad shoulders. 

_ Fuck. _

“Hush, little lark.” Geralt crooned, not giving a damn if he was overheard this time. Let them think he was weak. “I’m sorry, I squeezed too tight. Hush now. No one will hurt you.”

“You’re not mad?” Jaskier asked, lower lip trembling. It broke his heart.

“No, I’m not mad.” He confirmed softly, cupping the bards cheek to keep him focused as the healer examined his foot, still in complete darkness. 

_ She better know what she’s doing.  _ He groused silently, forcing his features to remain lax, comforting. 

“Just keep looking at me. Hold nice and still.” 

Jaskier nodded, eyes wide. His hands, that had been digging into Geralts shoulder like claws, relaxed. Progress. 

“Its fractured.” The healer piped up. “It’ll need to be wrapped, and rested.”

“For how long?”

“Two weeks, at least. Possibly longer.” Geralt heard her going through her bag, the clinking of glass and rustling of herbs echoing in the silence. He kept his eyes on Jaskier as the bard went tense. “I’ll rub an ointment onto it to help with the swelling, then wrap it with bandages. You need to apply it twice a day, once in the morning, once in the evening. Keep his leg elevated, and don’t wrap the bandages too tight. They need to keep his foot still, but not cut off circulation. If you’re not comfortable doing it yourself, you can bring him to me.”

Geralt wanted to snap at her that he damn well knew how to use bandages. He was a Witcher, for fucks sake. He’d been injured more than enough. 

“How much do I owe you?” He didn’t want to leave Jaskier, stop touching him; he had no choice. 

“Pay me back in the morning.” The healer replied, dismissing him swiftly. “He needs you right now.” 

The Witcher forced himself to bite out a “Thank you”, despite his aggravation.  She seemed to be competent, the quick peek he’d taken at the bandaged foot professional, bound exactly right. She was about to exit when he remembered.

“Wait. Who do I take him to for his mind? What do I do about-  _ this? _ ” 

“You don’t take him anywhere. And you’re already doing it.” 

“Damn it woman, speak. Normally.” He’d had about enough of her cryptic bullshit. He turned to look at her, her lips pulled down in a frown. 

“You must be new to this.” She finally sighed, shaking her head. “Be kind to him. Praise him. Take care of him. Reassure him that he’s safe. Be patient.”

Jaskier tensed more. Geralt snapped his attention back to him.

“I’ll find you in the morning.” He rumbled, and with that, she was gone. 

Feeling ill suited to the task at hand, Geralt couldn’t help feeling nervous. When had he last felt this way? Was it before the trials? He couldn’t remember. 

“How about a bath?” Geralt suggested, gently squeezing the bards thigh. “Get you cleaned up. Just have to keep your foot out of the water.”

Jaskier nodded, though his muscles didn’t ease. 

“I’m going to go ask them to bring it up.” Geralt stood, slowly, as he would with a nervous animal. “I’ll be right back. Can you stay here for me? Sit right here until I come back?”

Another nod, though the bards scent gave him away. He was afraid again. 

“Shh, none of that now.” He said, caressing the bards cheek affectionately, hoping to provide some sense of security. “It won’t take long.” 

* * *

Twenty minute later saw Jaskier in the tub,  the room bathed in candle light,  his injured leg hooked over the rim to keep it dry. Geralt had coaxed him to undress with sweet words and gentle touches. Jaskier had remained mute, but no more tears had bed shed. Geralt took that as improvement. 

Take care of him, the woman had said. Geralt wished she’d been more specific. Told him exactly what to do, and how. He could follow instructions, if he had to. He just didn’t like it much. 

So, here he was, sat on a stool beside the tub, watching as Jaskier sat still in the hot water. Blue eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling with his head tilted back, as Geralt wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do.

It struck him then. Jaskier had tended to him countless times, made  _ Geralt _ feel better when he was stuck in his own head. He’d never been anywhere near the state Jaskier was in, instinct and years of training making it impossible to let go of himself that much. But perhaps…

“Going to wash your hair.” He grunted, then moved to the bards satchel to locate the oils he knew Jaskier always carried. He found two vials that, after closer inspection, revealed their content. One chamomile, one lavender.

The chamomile was purely for Geralts benefit. Its scent was subtle enough not to bother the Witchers sensitive nose, and as much as he hated to admit it, his skin and hair had never looked nicer. Never felt softer.  Somewhere along the way, unless he was performing, Jaskier had switched to using the Witcher-friendly option of oils. He’d never thanked the bard for that.

Geralt chose the lavender. It would sting his nose, but this wasn’t about him. For once, he’d think of the bards comfort first.  Dragging the stool from beside the tub to behind it, Geralt tried to remember how Jaskier did this. 

Water first. The hair needed to be wet. 

“Close your eyes, songbird.” Once Jaskier complied, Geralt scooped water into his palm, then poured it over the bards hair. He took his time, made sure he’d gotten every strand. Hoping he showed the same care his bard always did. 

“Good.” He rumbled approvingly. Praise didn’t come easy to him, not normally. Now, it fell from his lips without a second thought. “You’re being so good.”

Next came the oil. 

Geralt applied it generously; oil was expensive, but they could afford to buy more. Fuck, maybe next time he’d come to the shop with Jaskier, find another scent that he could tolerate. Allow the bard some variety. 

As gently as possible, Geralt massaged it in, coating each strand, rubbing small circles against the larks scalp. Kept rumbling sweet nothings as he worked, even going so far to bring sword calloused hands to the bards shoulder, kneading at the muscles there. 

It was strange to dote over another person this way; strange, but not-  _ bad _ .

Watching the tension melt away from the bards body was sweeter a reward that he’d expected. Soft sounds of content warming the Witchers chest. 

Was this why Jaskier did it? Did he feel the same sense of calm, of contentedness? 

Huh. 

Perhaps he could get used to this. 

He lavished his lark with, admittedly, stilted and awkward affection until the water began to cool. Geralt would need more practice to show the same ease and confidence as Jaskier did. Perhaps one day.

“Going to get you out now. Want you to sit down on the chair, let me dry you off. Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes.” Jaskier sighed, almost dreamily. His eyes slowly returning to their shiny self. “I can do that.”

“Good. That’s my good boy.” 

Soon, Jaskier was seated on the wooden chair at the table, allowing Geralt to dry him off carefully. His posture was almost lax,  eyes fallen shut , like he was drunk, or fucked out. The change seemed odd to the Witcher. 

How could his songbird go from absolute terror to this, just from a bit of attention and affection given by Geralt? It seemed absurd that he’d have such an effect on anyone. But then, Jaskier had always been different. 

“ Lets get you dressed, sweet bard, and then we’ll eat.” 

Jaskier nodded, giving a sleepy hum a second later. Dark circles were slowly forming under the bards eyes, and Geralt decided that Jaskier would have the bed to himself that night. He clearly needed it. 

“Soon, little lark.” Geralt hummed, brushing his lips against the bards forehead. “We’ll sleep soon. Food first.” 

* * *

The food had been, while not exactly good, better than Geralt had expected. The meat wasn’t off, and while it lacked seasoning, it was far from the worst meal they’d been served during their travels.

Geralt had feed Jaskier himself, when the musicians hand seemed to shake too much to do it himself. He’d never thought the process would hand feeding a grown fucking man would be so-  _ pleasant _ . Jaskier looked at him as if he hung the moon and stars; like Geralt was his salvation, his only way into heaven. So trusting and open, he didn’t question a single thing. 

It was a heady feeling. 

Jaskiers love for him was usually tinged with pain, his melancholy, and rightfully so. 

This? This was a different matter all together. 

Geralt famously hated taking responsibility for another person. Had told Jaskier so himself. 

_ I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me. _

As he looked into the bards face, slack and so, so trusting, Geralt couldn’t deny it any longer. 

It felt  _ good _ . 

“Bed time.” He declared once they’d both finished their food. Jaskier gave another sleepy hum, leaning into the Witchers chest as Geralt lifted him. Rubbed his cheek against his wool shirt like an overgrown cat. 

Geralt gave a fond smile, knowing no one would see. He didn’t have to hide here. Not with his lark. 

The bed wasn’t horrible, though Geralt would have preferred a softer place to let Jaskier rest. Perhaps he could talk to the innkeeper tomorrow, see if there was a way to find a better bed. For tonight, and just tonight, it would do.

He laid the bard on his back, carefully resting his head against the pillow. Not to Geralts standards either, another issue for tomorrow. He tucked the bard in with care, until the was covered from neck to toe. 

“There you go.” He  whispered, brushing along the bards cheek with the tip of his thumb. “You did so well. Been so good for me.”

Jaskier preened under the attention, eyes half shut and heavy-lidded with fatigue, lips curled into a smile so soft, Geralt thought he might actually fucking melt. 

What a curious sensation.

“Sleep now, little lark.” He turned to blow out the last candle, when suddenly, he was grabbed by the arm.

“Y- You’re not going to-?” Jaskier asked, looking wide awake. Geralt froze. He’d come too far to let this go wrong now. 

“I’m going to sleep too.” He reassured, taking hold of the bards hand to press a kiss against his palm. “Going to lay down on the floor right beside you. I’m not leaving you, I swear it.”

Jaskier hesitated, bit down on his lower lip. Looked like he wanted to say something, but unsure if he was allowed. It was another jarring change to their dynamic, but not one that Geralt had any trouble adapting to. Taking control from Jaskier, knowing he was trusted explicitly, came disturbingly easy.

“What is it, little one?” He asked, moving to sit beside his lark, still holding onto his delicate hand. “What do you need?”

“..Sleep in bed with me?” 

Geralt gave a hum. Such a sweet request, made by such a sweet man.

“Of course, little lark. Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt turns to the healer for answers. Answers, as it turns out, he doesn't exactly enjoy hearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to add another (short) chapter to this one. Mostly to show how Geralt lears about this kind of thing, and how he feels about the information he's being given. About aftercare and subdrop and subspace and all that fun stuff. I really wanted to avoid those "modern" terms because it just didn't feel like they'd fit into this world. Hopefully you guys don't have the descriptions I've gone with instead. <3

Jaskier was still asleep.

Geralt frowned down at the bard, watching his chest rise and sink with ever deep, calm breathe he took.

He loathed to leave him behind; even an hour seemed too long, considering the bards condition last night.

He’d just have to be quick. Be back before Jaskier woke to an empty room. Just in case, though, Geralt placed the satchel holding his clothes and potions where it could easily be seen. The brunette would know he hadn’t been abandoned, not if Geralts things remained in the room.

It had to be enough.

* * *

Finding the healer did not take long, even with the sun barely rising on the horizon.

Their homes always carried a distinct smell, of herbs and tinctures, and all the other things needed to ply her trade. Geralt simply had to follow his nose.

The door opened before he had knocked on it, giving Geralt pause.

“I figured you’d come early.” She said, replying to a question he hadn’t asked. “While your friend is still asleep. I trust he’s feeling better?”

“Hmm.” Geralt entered the hut, the door falling shut behind him. Grabbing the pouch hanging on his belt, he raised an eyebrow at her. Another silent question he trusted she would answer.

“Don’t want your money, Witcher.” She motioned towards a table, wooden and sturdy, rustic in its charm, surrounded by wooden chairs. “Sit with me. You’ve come here for more than paying your debt, after all.”

Geralt gave another hum. He was wary of anyone that seemed to know his intentions so easily, but reasoned that, after the scene she’d witnessed and his obvious lack of knowledge on how to handle- whatever had happened… Assuming he’d want to know more was simply an educated guess, not sorcery.

“Ask your questions then.” The healer said, watching his every movement with keen, bright eyes.

“Last night. What happened to him?”

“I already told you. He got stuck in his own mind.” Another unhelpful answer, much like the ones she had given the night before. Geralt ground his teeth in frustration.

“Why did he get stuck? What happened to him?” He asked, hoping to get better results with the slightly altered question.

“You really are a novice.” She hummed, clearly amused; her smile, though, remained kind. “How many decades have you wandered this continent, I wonder. Your bards mind got stuck because he drifted, and then he dropped.”

Geralt had no idea what the fuck she meant by that. Drifted, and dropped?

“I don’t mean that literally, Witcher.” She continued, the smile still firm on her lips. “He and you, are an- _item_ , yes?”

It was a good question, Geralt thought. He had no reply to it. They had never spoken about it, for his benefit, he had no doubt. He wasn’t a man of words, nor did he talk about his feelings. Had it been up to Jaskier, they’d long have established what they were to each other.

“Does it matter?” He replied.

“It does. But I suppose what’s more important is whether or not you bed him.” Geralt wanted to balk at that, just a little. He wasn’t ashamed of bedding men, especially not Jaskier- but if they were to remain here until he healed.. Many weren’t as accepting of men fucking each other.

“Your silence says you do. Roughly, sometimes, I assume. Now Witcher, I’m not judging you. I haven’t met a man yet that doesn’t enjoy a bit of rough play, from time to time.”

“Hmm.”

“You see, there are quite a few that enjoy it. Handling their lover roughly, or being handled. Some thrive on the control, while others thrive on the lack of it. If I had to guess, I’d say your friend was the latter sort. Surrendering everything he is, to the one he trusts.”

Geralt avoided those searching eyes in favor of the wall above the healers shoulders. Jaskier did enjoy being tied, even blindfolded, at times. He enjoyed when Geralt denied him is peak until he was weeping with need, enjoyed when the Witcher held him down and took his pleasure. He was never cruel with it, Geralt would never seriously harm his bard. But her words still rung true.

“Have you ever noticed that, during your time together, he seemed- absent, perhaps? Hazy? Without focus? That, dear Witcher, is what I mean when I say ‘drifting’. You see, when someone surrenders that way, there is little else in their mind but pleasure, and warmth. They feel safe. Cared for. Treasured and loved.”

“Then why-” Geralt was cut off before he could form the words to finish the sentence.

“Because that state can quickly be reversed, and worsened.” She sighed, her expression wistful as she looked out her window. “After such a state, the mind needs care, guidance, to return to its normal state. The care you provided last night, for example. Preferably before it gets as bad as your friend was. Without it, the mind drowns itself in darkness. Every fear, every insecurity, ever bad thought- it festers, like an open wound. The longer its left untreated, the worse it gets. Until there is little but self-loathing, and fear.”

His brows furrowed as he thought back to the days before.

They hadn’t laid with each other the night before they arrived here, but the night before that.. Geralt had held his bard down and taken him, more than once. Had wrung climax after climax from the brunettes body, until he ran dry. Until Geralt himself was exhausted, thoroughly covered Jaskier with his scent and his seed. He’d fallen asleep not minutes after their coupling had ended; a blessedly silent bard curled up against his side.

“I didn’t know.” He finally grunted. It had never happened before, a human so enthusiastic to share Geralts bed. Taking everything the Witcher gave him, obeying whatever Geralt growled into his ear. Had it happened before, this drifting she spoke of, without him realizing?

“Now you do.” She said, pleasantly. “For the next time.”

He nodded. He knew what to do now, if his bard ever reached that state of mind again. And yet..

“He asked me not to hurt him. To take him without-” Geralt cut himself off, unable to speak the words. “Not once have I asked this of him. Nor hurt him during..”

“I expect he’s had others like you before. Perhaps they did. I cannot say if they knew what they were doing, or if, much like you, they were unaware. Either way, it seems to have left a mark.”

Geralt wanted very much to find the men that had marked his songbird so, only to remind himself that he himself didn’t treat the man with the kindness he deserved. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as them in bed, but aside of that?

He was cruel to Jaskier, when the man didn’t deserve it. He ridiculed him, insulted his voice and his songs. Told him over and over that they weren’t friends, that Jaskier was annoying, slowed him down.

He’d spent the days following up to Jaskiers injury doing exactly that, what he’d _always_ done when they weren’t fucking.

Geralt had never dropped, as the healer called it, but he’d been put under a number of spells and enchantments. One or two of them had latched onto the darkness inside him, much like what the healer was describing. Jaskier had taken it with a smile and a witty comeback, until he hadn’t. Until Geralt had done enough damage to silence him.

“Is it worth it?” He asked, quietly. “Drifting. Is it worth the risk of falling?”

“With the right person, there is no risk of falling. And to experience that level of trust, its a special thing, for both of you. The only question remaining, is whether you’ll be worth the trust he’s placed in you, Witcher. Or if you’ll leave your mark and abandon him, just as those before you.”


End file.
